Fragments
by Street faerie
Summary: Something based off of a D20 modern game I was in last year. Please Read and Review: It's weird. But in a good way. (new chapter more traditional)
1. it is bitter bitter

I would not have thought the girl could have so much blood in her. Or that eyes were ever that round (how did you do it Oedipus? I'm beginning to understand that desperation but I haven't gained any insight.) My feet are soaking in the warm liquid and I make my way over (slosh, slosh) to a window where outside the snowfalls gently, embracing the world in communion. The ground is a purple tapestry and I look down at the scarlet hands.

My hands.

my hands

could dye poisedon's sea red and still not be cleaned.

Outside the window, the world is blocked by a toothy beast with hollowed out eyes and straw hair. The thing smiles at me, not quite human, stretched out and thinned as butter over too much bread. I wish that it was stuck outside, that I could pluck out my own eyes and be free of everything, but my brain runs on one track.

Reflection.

Her soul swooned slowly as she heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. And the dead -- they come, then. Come and demand vengeance.

*

They were there in the darkness when Ella came out of her bright sleep and realized things that had been lies were actually truths. They blended into the blankness of the walls, the furniture, until they, like most of what the girl saw, were invisible to the waking world. She could hear her friend asleep, a pair of them inhaling and exhaling life, so relieved to be done that the current nightmare was over. Except, she reasoned, stories, true stories, bleed into one another, and 'happily ever after' was contradictory to real life, if one considers the maxim call no man happy until he's dead. Never mind that in her current state, to live happily ever after would have mean happiness.

She awoke from a nightmare of light into a darkness, and they were there. They had been there for a while. Their breathes taunted as whispers in a narrow hallway of closed doors, and shadows to hide secrets in that could reveal the truth suffocated under the lie, the face underneath a mask, someone's secret name. They came through a mirror darkly and always behind her, hidden until she would look and gaze into the bitter glass. For a cause she had resisted, for an idea.

In the darkness she laid on the couch. Someone sighed. She got up and looked over her left shoulder. 

-what do you want? She asked them, listening to their silence. Did they choose not to breathe, or was it merely something they were unable to do? The woman with hollowed out eyes stared at the void in her and dared for the cavities to be filled with clamor. Breathe in. One of them handed her a knife. Breathe out. One of them kissed her forehead. Breathe -- One of them reached through her breast and plucked out her heart, grinning -- neither wickedly or sweetly, just grinning -- before eating it.

-Broken, said one.

-Tender, said another.

-Loving, the last one said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve.

-Sacred.

-Scarred.

-Mending.

-Hollow.

-Empty.

-Deadened.

-Ice or stone or nothing.

-But… Ella said.

-Taken, one of them replied.

-Not yours to give.

-The belonging of a dead man, she played with an electronic bauble that Ella's hostess had left out.

-Raphaella Bridget Madding, another one coined. Healing. Poetry. Madness.

-I guess but…

-If this were a fairy tale,

-You and your prince,

-You would have saved him.

-Held on to him and not let go.

-I

-failed.

-Still, said one.

-There is a way.

-Take your heart, the last one added before handing her a necklace with a golden heart charm on it. And go to the land of the dead.

-Make a deal.

-You'll need more than a heart of gold. Either your or his.

-Luck.

-And wisdom.

-Hazel and stone to remind you of home.

-Desire.

-But what shall I bargain with, she asked them.

-That you'll think of your own.

-But how much is he worth?

She didn't answer their question. Instead they instructed on how she should go about traveling to the realm of the dead. She left as soon as they were gone. 


	2. In which we learn of the first part of t...

Go outside.  
  
Follow the wind.  
  
The path will rise to meet you  
  
(the wind will be at your back)  
  
"No journey begins without a visit to the Sybil." 


	3. tell me no more lies

"Now Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue  
Whatever ye may hear or see,  
For, if you speak word in Elfyn land,  
Ye'll neer get back to your ain countrie."  
-Trad. (Child ballad no. 37)  
  
Do not speak until the time is right.  
It'll come in twos.  
  
There'll be three (listen to them) 


	4. logos

****

Definitions:

They were not the Furies. No whips, scorpions, family blood was not spilt.

(do not call them that. Some things are better left unsaid. If you must invoke them -- which you aren't-- they are the Ladies. Nice and Kindly Ones.)

No, they were not them. 

She does not seek vengeance (it might haunt her still).

She was set upon this task by wyrds. Words.

And therefore by God.


	5. book, bell, and platypus

Ella walked outside and was greeted by the tangy, silent heat of late midsummer. Unopened flowers lined the sidewalk, wilting for want of water; they will spring back later after either the sky might empty or the caretaker might take pity and weep with the gardening hose, mourning the appearance of early death. Still, the smell permeated the air in a mix that mingled with the freshly cut grass: it was not wholly identifiable anymore as to what plant might have lent its fragrance; greenness got into everything the same way the heat seeped into every pore, every atom.

It had a smell! The air smelled of heat and grass; bodies and dirt; asphalt and garbage; blood and semen; all mingling uncertainly in the air creating a new humidity that was unrelated to water. Ella felt other's lives moist on her skin, as much a blessing as the sun. 

The day was too early for itself. Those who walked along the concrete roads were scavengers in search of coffee or runners who in their shorts and airy shirts pranced with their long legs. They did not notice her, nor anyone else, so gone they were in their locust-vision, side-walks became the world and each separate white square its own country.

The only person she recognized was Jeff. Jeff dated religions the way Marisa, a mutual friend, dated men. She currently has three exclusive relationships with three very high class guys who all love her. Two of them are thinking of asking her for her hand in marriage. The third just wants to know where she is all the time. Why she hasn't answered his phone calls. Marisa will probably end up dumping him. There has been this new boy she's noticed. The other one was getting too clingy.

And that's how Jeff is too except, of playing around with girls, he cheats on Churches. Friday and Saturday he spends at Shabbat. Sunday is at the First Methodist. And the rest of the time he acts and thinks like the Buddha. He's a visitor, a tourist who has stayed so long that he forgot that he was visiting and rented a house which they have never left.

That's why Ella just glared at him in the morning. It was too early for conversation. Too early for words, except "coffee" and "no, I do not want that noxious stuff that you claim as coffee but is really dirt in disguised, coffee has caffeine, dammit." Jeff smelled of lattes, but the scent lingered past and grew fainter and fainter. Swallowed by the day, just as Jeff is swallowed by distance.

At last she found her way to her own apartment. The door was unlocked as had been her habit of late. It might have been more trouble than it was to walk right in without pulling out of a cavern of a purse a key that did not want to be found. But, everything was as it should have been. The small kitchenette was neat with a few glasses and dishes sitting bone dry on the rack, either waiting to be put away into the cupboard above, or resting there happily in slumber. The litter of books that surrounded the couch like pagan worshippers might surround an idol. There was no use trying to tame them, for the books were free ranged creatures and refused the safety and restrain of the overcrowded bookshelves. She picked most of them up to hide them away in her bed room, a green forest of walls and cream curtains. The green bedspread that had not been touched in days, on top were pillows encased in yellow cloth. There sat a plush duckbilled platypus, his fur matted with age, but the buttoned eyes still bright. He was strangely enough a souvenir not from her prolonged stay in Australia, but from the two months she had spent in Greece. The glass beads of his eyes seemed more alive and puckish, a mischievous glint carried over from his namesake: Hermes, the Greek god who watched over travelers, thieves, and tricksters.

She closed her eyes, blocking out the white of the ceiling, and pictured the main room of her apartment. Her stomach was nagging at her that something wasn't right. Something was missing. One of the books, not just one, but the Book. She arose and with an unsteady lanky stride sprinted into the room and jumped over the back of the black couch.

No! It was there, but how? Ella recalled the woodwork of the coffee table, the square that was uncorrupted by the dust that had gathered from weeks of neglect; the water stain from a misplaced cup from one late night study session. She had frowned that it had been there, after five months of being covered and away from sight. She had seen it! The discoloration had been uncovered, and she had moved her hand to touch the table next to the Book, being careful not to touch the thing.

No, the Book was back. The dark leather looking equally appealing and frustratingly unsafe. Perhaps if she touched it she would be sucked into wherever. And as unlikely as that sounded, Ella's long fingers refused to go closer to the old thing. She was afraid of it, and was more than relieved to have thought it missing. She didn't (or couldn't) trust herself. She didn't trust anything that changed itself at will, that would come back and never remain with any of the people who took it.

And she wasn't completely sure if she was talking about the Book or herself.

Certainly enough people had asked for it, claiming it to be on any number of things, but she had never had the courage to open it herself and look.

And anyway, she preferred the term common sense.

She wanted to go to sleep, curl up in her own bed and forget everything that had happened. Every dream and nightmare would be blacked out, knitted closed and made alright. The things that would no be solved by a few hours of slumber and a shower? They were dissolving into the air and the heat. What pushed at the edges of her mind had loosened its grip considerably since waking up, dissolving like fog into the day.

It was only a book after all. And she was ultimate of a sound and rational mind that depended upon empirical evidence. Feelings were the stuff of poetry. It sat on the table innocent and lovely, the plain leather cover releasing fragrance into the air about her. The room smelled of tack, like the barns she had visited years ago. Like old pairs of shoes stuffed forever into the closet and just now released. It mixed with the dry paper the leather covers held.

With her eyes closed, she opened the text, her hand ran over the finely rough pages. The hand was still there, turning another page as antique dust fiddled around the room in newly learned arias. What alerted her to a new strangeness was the scent of electronics. Something starting small fires and stopping them so quickly that the only trace of existence was the singed atoms of the air that would careen through the atmosphere. The sharp smell of smoke attacked her nose as if it was a knife.

Ella gasped for air and choked upon ... air. She opened her eyes and saw nothing to explain the terrible smell of fire. Once again, the sound of freshly circulated stale air filled the room as the air conditioner turned on. It sent cool air, still damp form early spring's rain to every crevice of the room. Ella wanted a sweater, but she settled down to look at the Book instead, even if she didn't want to. Her eyes focused upon the tips of her fingers of her right hand. The pads of two were burned. Not seriously, but enough for discoloration and the disconcerting smell of seared flesh.

With her other hand, she closed the volume quickly, causing more of the settled dust to perform aerial acrobatic feats. Then, she got up and being sensible in strange ways, ran cold water over her fingers because that was what she was suppose to do. They didn't hurt. Ella knew that if she hadn't look at them, then she wouldn't have been doing this right now. It was as if she had been marked for something.

Absurd, Ella thought. I've already been .... And then the part of her that had been suppressed for so long spoke up. You were dreaming.

She wasn't. Or, well she couldn't prove that she wasn't dreaming. If this was a dream, it was the same one as the rest of her life. From behind her head, next to the extraordinarily sized television (for a student, anyway, it was a full 62 cm) stared the three main characters of the Matrix forever posed in a poster. This was real life, not a movie. This is not a book. This is not the Matrix, and is bereft of red and blue pills, white rabbits and other crazy choices. No one was running around in leather coats and sunglasses stylishly fighting the evil powers that be.

Except she had a Book that singed her fingers when she stroked it.  
Except she dreamed last night she killed her best friend, Natasha.

Above the sink was a window, the will of which contained a faint layer of dust and half dead potted plants. A vase filled with dried flowers she collected from some while ago. Beyond the glass were a few large tress. Below them was a parking lot, and then, beyond them was a brick wall. Outside, the pavement radiated heat waves and the particular smell of summer road 

Everything was bright with sun and heat. The dried roses gave of the slightest bit of the sweetest odors, the soap mixed gently with them. She curved her long fingers so that the ends would touch he tip of her thumb and still nothing. The lack of pain or tenderness was troublesome, but it was not memory that told her the metal faucet would be cool to touch. Or that the towel that had been lying in the sun for most of the morning would be heated. She would feel.

Distractedly, she watched the cars from below naming the heads of people she might have recognized. Then she went back to her bedroom and changed into fresh clothing. For no real reason except the obscure inkling of a though in her mind she pick clothes that would be good for traveling in. The standard gear of weekend warriors everywhere: blue jeans (with the hems almost shredded, but what a delight that was, hooray for tall pants), tee shirt with the logo of the Uni she had studied at for four years, and trainers. She ran back into the bathroom and washed her face and frowned. Her face stared back at her, the wide cowlike eyes startled into blue. Youthful and inexperienced. Ella felt cheated that she didn't have any battle scars. Not even signs of distress from all-nighters and hours spent perusing the library for classes. Instead of stressed out and frightened, she looked serene and angelic. She could have been frozen as a statue in a Cathedral. Her face looked as if it belonged to a person who couldn't take care of herself.

The mirror had nothing else she wanted to look at, and she quickly left the small white and blue bathroom and fell back to the bed. Underneath her had a muffled noise. She had often used Hermes as a pillow, but while being one for imaginative childhoods had never pretended her could talk. She sat up and looked around.

"Don't you think you had better be going?" the voice said. It was vaguely deep and British, very pleasant to listen too. Incongruitious with the sense that creatures such as plushies, if they would choose to talk, would talk in a scratchy, high-pitched Brooklyn accents. Ella looked around and wondered if someone had placed a tape recorder somewhere among everything else that took up her room. Then she looked back at the platypus who's shinning button eyes stared up at her lovingly. She let herself fall into the pillows. If someone wanted to prank her, they would be getting little to no reaction form her.

"You want to save him, don't you?" the plushie said.

"Zeno's dead," Ella replied. I watched him kill someone, watched a demon almost rise up from where he stood, and watched Natasha shoot him.

"They told you how..."

"I dreamed that up last night."

"Of course you did. Just like you're dreaming of the heart that hangs around your neck."

"And I'm dreaming now. You don't have vocal cords. You can't talk."  
"Get up," Hermes ordered. "Do you really believe you'll have nice dreams?" Nothing changed in the room. The room, in its sunny, pleasant atmosphere that smelled too much like Chanel No. 5 and vanilla, betrayed the blond girl. There was only the slightest hint of the charred fires of nights before. It over powered the familiarity of the room, made it alien, inhospitable. A cruel desert that she had been traveling in the forty days without rest. She rose disbelieving what she sense around her while her vision narrowed until all that she focused upon was the little stuffed creature with its furry proportions.

"I'm dreaming," she repeated to herself, rolling into an armadillo style ball, giving the impression of being an artichoke with legs.

"You believed in God and angels. You believe that there is a dragon under the city. You believe that Zeno is worth saving, that even though he tried to kill you once before, he really loves you --which, even more unbelievable is true-- that you can rescue his soul from hell, but you do not believe I can talk?" The creature blinked its eyes, a remarkable feat since it did not even have eyelids. "Stop looking as if I've sprouted another head. Grab a bag, grab me, the Book, and get out of here."

"Why, is something bad going to happen?" She asked. I'm listening to a toy, I've gone mad, that's all there is to it. I should call a shrink.

Under her bed, where she piled old forgotten things laid her empty canvas bad under fencing gear and Doc Martins that couldn't be bothered to find a proper place to live. The bag was one of those popular messenger bags in a bright green. There was a peculiar smell to it, a mix of ancient things that were fleeting like flame moths after a fire.

"That will do. Now, come along, gather your things," he said. "We've a long way to go and you need to pick up the path again."

"Fine, whatever," she said. She stuffed Hermes into the bag and went into the hallway where she found she couldn't move.

"The book, get it."

"It frightens me." she whispered feeling stupid for admitting such a thought to a now speaking inanimate object.

"Good. You'll need that, but you'll need the book now."

Back she went in and flung the book into the bag quickly trying not to touch it. The bag held, but put an unpleasant weight upon her shoulder. Then, she went outside to meet someone she didn't know.  
  
Author's note:  
  
I don't know what to say here except I would appreciate any comments and advice you could offer me. And I mean any.  
  
This is the end of the first chapter (yes, I know that the marker reads differently. I'm just taking advantage of the way ff.net separates things.)  
  
I would like to my former DM for the idea although it probably bears little resemblance to where she was heading with it.  
  
And thank you for reading (and putting up with some of the weirder stuff at the beginning, yes, I do intend to keep on with that. I think a fair warning is good) 


End file.
